I Hate You, I Don't
by GrimmUlquigrrrl
Summary: They hate each other, they do, have and always will. Until everything changes and debts have to be paid-then they find that maybe they aren't as different as they always believed.
1. Chapter 1

Grimmjow Jaegerjaques hated Ulquiorra Schiffer. Why shouldn't he? Schiffer was a stick-up-the-ass, stick-in-the-mud daddy's boy who had the imagination of a rock and the free will of a piece of lint. Anything he was told to do eh did, even if there wasn't half a reason-unless the person telling him was another student, then he glared at them for daring to speak to him in a commanding tone. The only respect he had was for people higher than him on the totem pole, and he thought he was almost at the top of it.

He was crazy quiet, like, eerily quiet. He hardly ever said anything, and that annoyed Grimmjow like hell. What, weren't people good enough for that prick to talk to? He was always sitting, silently, alone, paying perfect attention and taking perfect notes and keeping up a perfect wall. Everything he did was so fucking perfect. He didn't seem to have a single flaw, but he had to, right? There was something about himself he had to be hiding, but it was completely ambiguous as to what.

Plus, he looked weird. He was pale as shit and had black, chin-length hair-the perfect goth, but he dressed in a button-down shirt and dress pants every day like he was some kind of nerd. Why would he do that? Girls went nuts over goth guys. Besides, he took really good care of himself. He was decently built and decently tall, not like Grimmjow but good enough, and was actually pretty attractive. Girls would fall head-over-heels for his big green eyes and high cheekbones if he would just take advantage of it; didn't he want that, or did he really hate people that much? It seemed like it, since he always ignored the chicks that did chase him. What was up with that? Was Schiffer homo or something?

But the thing Grimmjow hated the most about Schiffer was that way Schiffer looked at him. Schiffer had that look in his eyes, not even hatred but just boredom, like he was looking at what he constantly saying was trash. He was completely blank when he looked at Grimmjow, like Grimmjow wasn't even worth emotion, and that pissed Grimmjow off like fuck. How dare he? Who did he think he was-what did he think _Grimmjow_ was? Grimmjow wasn't some piece of discarded plastic by the side of the road, dammit! Someone once said to him that Ulquiorra seemed like he was jealous of him, but why in hell's name would he be? Just because of his popularity?

Ulquiorra Schiffer had everything. Eh had looks, brains, strength, obedience, excellent relationships with all his teachers, really nice girls after him that weren't whores, a safe home, the ability to defend himself, a family that loved him. He even seemed to get along with some people, a little. So Grimmjow hated Ulquiorra Schiffer. He hated him because he didn't know pain.


	2. Chapter 2

Ulquiorra Schiffer hated Grimmjow Jaegerjaques. Why shouldn't he? Jaegerjaques was pompous and unruly, constantly challenging authority simply because he could. There was no reason for it other than to stir up a fuss, which Ulquiorra considered hardly a reason at all. Nothing teachers said reached him, as he never listened to them, and no matter how many times he was sent to the office for his attitude he always remained the same. He walked around as if he owned the world.

He was loud, as well, one of Ulquiorra's most despised traits the other displayed. Jaegerjaques seemed to be always running his mouth,telling this story or that whenever he could connive someone into listening, which was often. He was so greatly revered by the other students in their small public school, a rebel, and most of his tales had something to do with his escapades. He had a story for every occasion, a story about his often-illegal thrill seeking that set Ulquiorra's teeth on edge. How could Jaegerjaques so readily go against the hard-set rules? Rules were all that kept society in its place.

His appearance itself led him into vagrancy. He told many stories of people picking fights with him over his blue hair or green triangle tattoos by his eyes; Ulquiorra remembered the day he'd come in with them. His already low opinion of the other had plummeted. He dressed like a vagrant as well, in baggy pants with chains hanging off of them and a blue zip-up jacket with pockets his hands were always shoved in. His shoes always seemed to be too big for his feet, and a silver chain ending in a gothic six always hung around his was muscled and rugged-looking, as if he trained for any altercations he anticipated would occur.

Et way he looked at Ulquiorra was infuriating as well. He acted as if Ulquiorra were the most detestable being ever to have begun existence, above Adolph Hitler and Joseph Stalin and the mass of tyrannical dictators the like, showing a detest that Ulquiorra had never encountered before. Was the fool jealous of him? Of his good grades? A greater idiot Ulquiorra had never met.

Grimmjow Jaegerjaques had everything. He had popularity, looks, friends, any woman he wanted, a roof over his head every night, the ability to protect himself, a happy life, loving parents. He even had passing grades, if only barely. Yes, Ulquiorra truly hated Grimmjow Jaegerjaques, because Jaegerjaques did not know pain.


	3. Chapter 3

Grimmjow hated being looked down on.

"Out of my way, trash," Schiffer said coolly as he stepped around Grimmjow in the hall, and immediately rage flared in the bluenette. He stepped into Schiffer's way belligerently.

"And if I don't?" he sneered. They were chest to chest, and Schiffer had to tilt his head up to look Grimmjow in the eye with that intolerably empty look. "What's a goody two shoes like you doing out of class anyway?"

"I could ask you the same question," Ulquiorra intoned. "Now, I suggest you remove yourself from my space immediately before you find yourself in a perilous situation." Grimmjow's smirk fell. Son of a bitch! How dare he speak to Grimmjow that way? Grimmjow was easily the physically stronger of them, and no one was around to see in anything unfortunate happened. No one cared about this piece of shit anyway.

"What, are you intimidated?" Grimmjow asked, taking another step in, and Schiffer reflexively stepped back. "You are, aren't you? You know I could kick your skanky pale ass, and there's no one here to help you if I do. You'd better not piss me off."

"Someone as degenerate as you is always 'pissed off,'" Schiffer said levelly, and damn if it shouldn't have sounded mocking-but it didn't, because this was Schiffer and Schiffer didn't know the meaning of feelings. "I will say it once more: remove yourself from my personage."

"Don't fucking order me around!" Grimmjow shouted, balling his fist for the first time he thought he saw something cross Schiffer's face, an emotion, and he stared a second too long. Had he broken Schiffer's perfect mask? It had only been for a second, but what he'd seen was _fear._ It was gone so swiftly that Grimmjow doubted he'd seen it, but he was going to say he had anyway. He smirked.

"What, you worried?" he grinned, stepping in again. "I don't blame you. After all, I'm taller, I'm stronger, I know how to fight…and I ain't sissy enough to avoid this fight."

"Ain't is not proper English," Schiffer chastised. "The correct term is am not." Grimmjow burst into howling laughter. Seriously? This son of a bitch was about to get his face bashed in and he was worried about grammar? What a fucking pansy! Grimmjow clutched his sides as he roared, bending over and letting his teeth show.

"Y-you're kidding!" he barked. "You've gotta be kidding me!"

"I would not joke about grammar," Schiffer said coolly, attempting to step around Grimmjow from where he was now pinned against the lockers. Grimmjow cut him off quickly, still chortling deep in his stomach.

"Sure ya wouldn't, yer fucking perfect," he chuckled. "But apparently you're not as smart as you thought-it woulda been the perfect time to deck me while I was laughing. You coulda gotten away. Are you a masochist, or do you just not wanna break the rules? You know I'm gonna beat you to a pulp, right?"

"No you won't," Schiffer said.

"Yeah? Why not?"

""Because no one is here to see."

Grimmjow blanched. Wait, what? Suddenly the emptiness of the hallways loomed around him, the vacant air seemed heavy. There was no one. Wasn't that ideal? If anyone saw Grimmjow kick the shit out of Schiffer he'd get in major trouble-but people either feared or respected Grimmjow too much to say anything, and besides, Grimmjow knew that Schiffer would tell anyway. Was it really worth the trouble he'd get into if no one saw him do it? A fight didn't feel like a fight unless people were crowding around and rooting in the background. Grimmjow slammed Schiffer against the locker, and Schiffer winced.

"You think I give a fuck?!" Grimmjow yelled, getting inches from Schiffer's face to glare into his passive eyes. "You think I'm so shallow that I care if someone sees? I don't! Why would I? I don't need anyone to tell me when I do something right or wrong!"

"Have I hit a nerve?" Schiffer asked tonelessly. Grimmjow growled, grabbing Schiffer's perfectly pressed shirt and yanking him closer.

"I'm gonna hit you!" Grimmjow spat.

"You are so transparent," Schiffer sighed. Grimmjow threw him against the lockers again.

"Says the sissy bitch!" Grimmjow shouted, raising his hand.

"Grimmjow!" a woman's voice called from behind, and Grimmjow whirled around. Oh shit. "How many times have I told you not to pick fights with other students? My office, now!" Grimmjow shot a glare over his shoulder at Schiffer as he followed the principal away, making sure Schiffer knew this wasn't over.

~!~

Grimmjow sat in detention, wanting like nothing else to hit something. He simmered, but he planned. Tomorrow he would launch an attack on Schiffer-and no one would be there. He had to prove to that piece of shit that he was wrong about him. Grimmjow didn't need encouragement to kick his sorry pale ass.

The grey room left him plenty of room to think, especially since talking and technology were not allowed. Grimmjow spent the whole hour fantasizing about how he was going to break Ulquiorra's teeth and dislocate his knees and pull his hair so hard his scalp bled; he could hardly wait. It was near impossible to sit still and not fidget or constantly crack his knuckles in anticipation of the fight.

The second the hour was up he bolted from his desk and down the hall to the training room. He was part-and the star-of their school's boxing team, so the rooms were open to him at all times. He spent thirty minutes just pounding the living shit out of the punching bag and imagining it was Schiffer's face.

The next day he purposefully woke up an hour early to be at school by 6:30-when he knew Schiffer would be in the library, and alone. Schiffer always showed up by 6:00 to be there when the doors opened, though nobody knew why. Grimmjow didn't care. All that mattered to him was that he could drag Schiffer outside and pound on him without anyone seeing him. He wanted to leave Schiffer a bloody mess on the sidewalk, broken and unconscious, and instill such fear in him that he would never tell anyone who did it to him.

Grimmjow shoved his hands in the pockets of his favorite blue hoody as he walked down the hallway, grinning like a madman. There was gonna be blood, oh so soon…Despite his thrumming energy Grimmjow silently slipped into the library, containing himself as he hid behind the rows of bookshelves. There sat Schiffer, peacefully oblivious to the danger he was in, and like a big cat Grimmjow crouched to watch him. He wanted to savor this tingling feeling before he broke every bone in Schiffer's skinny body.

Schiffer sat at a table in the middle of the library, completely alone in a sea of empty chairs, and Grimmjow sneered. Schiffer had to know Grimmjow would come back for him, and yet he opted to be solitary instead of seeking safety in numbers. Did he really hate people that much, or was he just stupid? He couldn't honestly think Grimmjow would let this go.

Yet there he sat, nose buried in a book, completely unaware of the world around him. That would be his downfall. Still, he looked almost…content, to be alone like that with a book, surrounded by bookshelves and tables and that funny library, old-book smell. Why the hell would he feel that way? Libraries had far too many nooks and crannies where some ill-meaning person could lay in waiting, too many shelves that could fall and crush you, too many thick-bound books that would soak up the sound of approaching feet. Libraries had to be one of the most dangerous places Grimmjow could think of. Schiffer really must have been a moron.

Still, it was interesting to see him actually enjoying something. He looked attentive and involved, not aloof and above everything like he normally was, and Grimmjow squinted to read the title of the book. It must have been pretty good to drag Schiffer down to normal human level. Grimmjow realized he might have discovered a weakness.

He'd had enough of standing, so he ducked behind the shelves silently. The tingling had turned into a buzz, like a hive of angry wasps under his skin, and he was thrumming for violence. He was so ready to just punch the shit out of his distracted prey he could taste it like blood on his tongue. Oh, wait, he'd bitted his cheek in his sleep and it had opened again. It didn't matter though; the metallic taste made him all the more pumped for the beating he was about to give out.

He snuck up completely silently on the balls of his now-bare feet, making sure to stay in Schiffer's blind spot, but the dipshit didn't loo up once. There was another thing about libraries-it was dangerous to get sucked into a book like that. A lesson Schiffer was about to learn.

Grimmjow's hand shot out and latched onto Schiffer's bony shoulder like a lamprey eel, clamping down painfully. Grimmjow expected Schiffer to jump up and whirl around, taking a fighting stance the way he was known to when startled. He didn't. He froze, and Grimmjow could feel Schiffer's muscles bunch under his hand. The book fell to the ground, Schiffer's page lost, as Schiffer convulsed-Grimmjow knew this pose; it was the stance of a rabbit caught by the back of the neck by a fox. It was a stance of total, paralyzing fear. Grimmjow knew it well.

His hand loosened in surprise, and Schiffer seemed to come back into himself immediately. He shot up the way Grimmjow had expected, his mask almost perfectly in place, but there was fear in his eyes and his pose was sloppy. He breathed heavily and shook as if he'd just escaped a near-death situation, and his jaw was clenched tight. Grimmjow didn't know how to describe it but to say that Schiffer looked like Grimmjow always felt.

Grimmjow started numbly. Schiffer-Ulquiorra Schiffer-had no reason to make that look. Right? It was a look of habitual fear, a learned panic, and Schiffer's life was perfect. There was a moment of shock, when Grimmjow stared with his hand still outstretched, then Schiffer took advantage of Grimmjow's disbelief and backed away. Grimmjow watched him go, not believing what he saw. Suddenly he understood everything.


	4. Chapter 4

Ulquiorra hated Wednesday nights. He had been in a twist all day long, and had been such that he had allowed himself to be startled by the likes of Jaegerjaques. That was a true degradation of his ability to sense incoming danger, a talent he had honed. His stresses were such that he had made the almost fatal mistake of disappearing from them in a book, providing Jaegerjaques the opening to creep up behind him, a mistake that he would not be repeating. Wednesdays truly were the worst days. He gently let his bag down to the floor by the front door, careful not to turn his back on the ten or so men leering at him. Jaegerjaques was the least of his problems.

"Ulquiorra, welcome home," a brunette man said kindly, stepping through the crowd of people as if this were any regular day. For a Wednesday, it was.

"Hello father," Ulquiorra said with careful respect, feeling his tense emotions from the day drain out of him. It was best to be an empty husk during the activities which were to follow. He let himself slide away into a kernel inside his chest, small and concentrated and glimmering golden in his darkness, hidden even from him for his own good. He let the change occur as he had for years, accustomed to it now; anything but mindless obedience would make this end badly for him.

"How was school today?" his father asked.

"It went well," Ulquiorra answered, looking at his father's shoes as he had been taught.

"Good, good," his father said. "Are you ready to entertain our guests?"

"Yes, father," Ulquiorra said.

Ulquiorra allowed the men to approach and tie his hands behind his back with sturdy rope, his shirt ripped apart as he was tossed onto the kitchen table. Ulquiorra heard the buttons skitter on the ground and felt the hard wood smack against his spine painfully, but was removed from it now. "Well, boys," his father said, "I will be keeping tabs on your orgasms, as usual, so please be willing to pay."

They posed him like a doll with wire in its limbs, bending him and playing with him as they pleased. They folded and unfolded him like a lawn chair, taking their pleasure from him, and he ignored the pain. It hardly hurt anymore, really. He didn't even choke when peoples' intimates where forced into his throat. Oh, how things had changed. The table collapsed at some point in hour three, and he fell heavily to the floor. His arms were pinned between the floor and his body painfully and the grout between the tiles scraped at his skin, and he focused on it. His bony vertebrae clacked against the ground with each thrust.

It wasn't until eight o' clock that they stopped, leaving Ulquiorra laying on the ground. As usual, he was quite tired. Until, that was, a foot connected with his ribcage, violently shocking him into full awareness. He gasped for air as his wind rushed from the assault like a wounded woman, but received only another kick, this time to the back; he floundered wildly in his mind the way he did not dare in body. Were those steel-tipped shoes?

Suddenly he was a soccer ball, bouncing from one foot to the next, every nerve in his body jarring at each relentless kick. What was going on? His father always stopped any abuse that wasn't sexual-not out of care but fear that the bruises would be seen and non adequately explained away. Another boot sunk into his side, and it seemed as though the impact hit not only his flesh but the concrete dam inside himself. The dam fractured, water leaking through. Ulquiorra felt it crack. No. No! A foot came down on his face, and he heard a crack and tasted blood.

Terror came flooding into his veins at the taste, turning his blood at once to ice and fire. His eyes searched for his father between the legs of a dozen men; his father would stop them, as he had before. That much, at least, Ulquiorra could count on. But when he was yanked up by his hair and socked in the gut, he saw his father smiling. Immediately it all made sense.

His eighteenth birthday was in a few days. Ina few days he would be free, free to run, free to tell. His father couldn't take that chance.

As fists rained down on him, he understood. The lock sprang loose inside himself and the wild, untrained animals of terror, fear and panic leapt out. Suddenly it was all he could do to keep himself breathing through the massive weight on his chest, through the lump in his throat, through the swelling in his head, and he knew he was going to die.

For the first time in years, he struggled. He twisted and jack knifed, screaming. "No! One, get off! Stop! Stop!" he cried out, begging the men around him and begging God. He didn't really believe in God, he'd never had a reason, but in that moment he prayed. It wasn't he white nightclothes and the knees on the carpet and "I want this, I want that." It was a wrenching, desperate cry for Mercy! Mercy, please!

If there was any animal more dangerous than fear, it was hope.

He was slammed into the ground and black swam before his eyes. Someone yanked on his arms and he cried out as he heard a sickening pop. He screamed. He screamed for Heaven and Hell to heard him, he screamed for his neighbors, he screamed for himself, he screamed because he had to scream. It hurt-it was terrifying-the panic burned-and he couldn't keep it all in. Never, never in his life, had he felt emotion. Always he had hidden it from himself, and in the second before his death he felt it all. He wanted to go back. He wanted to go back!

Everything he had always stoically stowed away was jumping on him with teeth and claws bared. It was like a snake bite, a venom that bubbled and boiled inside him, and he cried. He hadn't cried since his mother left, but here he was, long past that age and crying. He was so weak. How could he be so weak? Always he had been the strongest, always people had looked up to him, if only for his brains and aloofness, but now he could see he was a fool. He was weak, weaker than the people he had always looked down on. What was he? Who was he? He cried.

The door burst open and the men scattered with shouts, and Ulquiorra cried.


	5. Chapter 5

Grimmjow hated being wrong, but for once he wished he was. When he'd gotten home from boxing practice the first thing he'd done was grab his laptop and scurry into his room, dodging past his parents and googling _Ulquiorra Schiffer._ There was already news, and now he was leaning against his door with his laptop in his lap reading it. He'd found a CNN story, one he thought he could trust, and with each passing word his stomach sank a little lower.

_Last night at approximately 8:30 PM, Child Protective Services were called out to 15280 Pleasantview Drive. They reported hearing screaming form inside the house when they arrived and entered to find a chilling scene. _

_"For the sake of the victim I cannot tell you the specifics," said Bradley Kingsman, a CPS officer on the scene. "What I can tell you is that the victim is in a very critical condition medically, but the people responsible have been apprehended and the victim will most likely make a full physical recovery."_

_"It was horrible," Mary Foster, another CPS officer said. "In my years of working this job, I've never actually walked in on the abuse. There was blood everywhere, and the poor boy was lying there broken on the floor…" She choked a little as she explained the scene to the CNN reporters. "He's going to need years of therapy."_

_The victim has been identified as high school senior Ulquiorra Schiffer. Aizen Sousuke, Schiffer's father, as well as nine other men were arrested. Two men got away, and there is now a heavy search in progress for them. Their pictures are below, as well as the number to call if you have any information about their whereabouts._

_Schiffer's mother, who has been absent since Schiffer was four, has been contacted by CPS and is on her way. When CNN contacted her she cried, "My fault! This is all my fault!"_

_Schiffer has varying internal injuries, and requires surgery. We will let you know more as soon as we have more information on this breaking story."_

That was it. Someone was abused for years, and all they got was half a page somewhere on a news feed. Grimmjow had figured as much. Still, he was glad he'd acted on his hunch and called. After all, it sounded like Schiffer really could have died if he hadn't. He might have saved a life.

The door thumped harder against his back and he leaned back more to keep the door closed. "Grimmjow!" his mom's high-pitched voice screeched, slurring his name heavily. "Open the motherfucking door before we break you!" Grimmjow ignored the threat, even though he knew how serious she was, and braced himself as his dad sent a particularly powerful kick to the door, catching himself before he could sprawl forward. The spot between his shoulder blades ached with the impact, but he couldn't let them in yet. Besides the fact that if they saw the computer they'd break it, there was a link to a video and he wanted to watch it. He needed to see for himself how bad Schiffer had it.

He pressed play and took it to fullscreen, muting the sound. Through the flashing police and ambulance lights, he could barely make out glass all over the road and swarms of people that looked like insects in their blue uniforms. The sky was dark, making the difference between the red and blue lights seem blinding. Then, as the camera stopped panning and zoomed in, he saw Ulquiorra on a gurney, being wheeled into an ambulance.

He looked like hell. His black hair was messy, his skin was even whiter than normal. Blood ran down most of his face from his obviously broken nose, dripping down his neck and onto the open collar of his ripped up shirt. He had a black eye developing and a few lacerations on his brow and left cheek. Through the opening in his shirt Grimmjow could see several more ragged cuts and bruises-he'd never realized how skinny Schiffer was. Even on the bustling, grainy film it was easy to see that he didn't eat right.

But his injuries weren't what terrified Grimmjow. It was the look in his eyes-his eyes that normally looked down on all the world, but now looked around, glazed over in pain and panic. He was so recently saved, but the world still scared him. He looked like a lost little child all alone in the big supermarket, looking for his parents.

The door cracked under the repeated pressure, and Grimmjow was shocked away from the video. He didn't have any more time. He slammed his stolen laptop shut and slid it deep under his bed, curling into a fetal position on the floor. He made sure he was away from any furniture that could be tipped over onto him and let the door burst open. His mother cackled wildly.

"We gotcha! We gotcha now!" she screamed, pushing her husband toward the ball that was Grimmjow. "Git 'im! Git 'im git 'im git 'im!"

At his wife's insistence, Grimmjow's father lumbered drunkenly over to where Grimmjow carefully held his position. It was like playing dead while a tiger sniffed at you-if he moved, the wrath of hell would come down on him. So he held his position, held it so hard he shook, squeezing his eyes shut and waiting for the first blow. For the thousandth time he wished he could spring up and punch them both right in their ugly mugs, but he knew that would only get him hit harder. Unless he could knock them out, jump over them and run, run all the way to Mexico, to Canada…the first hit came. It was sloppy but powerful, and it sent Grimmjow rolling to one side. His father grunted, his eyes blurry, and kicked again.

His father had almost no will of his own when he was drunk, acting only on his wife's frenzied cries, but once he got going it was impossible to stop it. He was like certain kinds of cars: he was slow to get rolling, but once he his engine warmed up he could do 120 no problem. It was only a matter of seconds before Grimmjow was assaulted by feet, fists, and anything that could be picked up. Is this what Schiffer had felt like, with the dull, thudding impact of random objects assaulting him? No, it couldn't have been, it had to have been hella worse. Weren't there other guys arrested? Nine, or something like that. What would it feel like to get mobbed like that?

Grimmjow grunted heavily as he was knocked into the wall. He bit back a curse, something he almost never did, but he knew how his mother would react. She hated him in the best of times, but especially when he acted like a regular human being. His spine hit the wall again, and all his muscle didn't protect him from the sharp ache; but then his father kicked just a little too hard, and Grimmjow spasmed as red-hot pain ripped through him. Oh, _fuck._ He had felt this pain before, in his arms, his legs, but never in his ribs.

He choked back a cry as his broken ribs were hit again, seething out a groan and blinking away compulsive tears. No, he would not cry for them. He'd had broken bones before-but somehow this hurt worst. Every breath shot arrows through his torso, pain clouded his mind, and suddenly he was really scared. His father pummeled the spot again, and Grimmjow couldn't help the loud yelp that escaped him as agony laced up his spine like long, hooked fingers.

"Ha!" his mother jeered, "just this much makes you scream? You pathetic attention whore!" Grimmjow cried out as his ribs were harshly kicked again, and his mother brought down her beer bottle on Grimmjow's arm where it covered his head, cackling. The glass broke and bit into his skin, and even though he seethed he focused on it. The sharp pain was better than the blunt throb from his back and chest.

He coughed, and the spasms ravaged his nervous system. God, how could one solitary cough cause so much pain? He nearly blacked out. He heard his mother's wild laughter dully and felt something warm drip through his hair-blood? From is arm? He wasn't about to reach up and find out. "Here ya go, sweetie!" his mother screamed, pouring burning alcohol over him, "this oughta help that ache! Drink it up!" Her laughter spiraled out of control again, and Grimmjow bit his cheek as the beer bubbled against his skin sickeningly. He would be so sticky in the morning.

His father took another swig of his drink, and Grimmjow had just a moment of respite. Now the kicks were aimed less accurately, and the impact with his ribs occurred less frequently. Still, every time it happened he had to shout. He couldn't stop it. His screams fueled his mothers fire, and the louder she called for violence the more violence his father gave her. "You're pathetic!" she taunted Grimmjow. "Look at you! Sitting all curled up, crying for your mommy! Well, your mommy's right here, bitch! Whaddaya got to tell me, huh?! _HA_ ha ha ha ha ha!"

Normally it would have gone until one of them passed out, Grimmjow knew, but tonight he was lucky. After a few hours his father stumbled back and looked blearily at his mother. "You turn me the fuck on," he growled, staggering over to her, and her eyes lit up savagely.

"Oh yeah?" she said. "You wanna fuck me?"

"Fuck yes," his father slurred.

"Then come catch me!" And with that she took off, playing her usual game of cat and mouse, and the drunk man lumbered after her.

Grimmjow sat there for what felt like an eternity, waiting until he could her them getting jiggy downstairs. He sat there a little longer, unwilling to move because hell, if breathing hurt this much what would moving do? But he had to get up, had to get to the bathroom, to wrap his arm, to lock the door, to protect himself. They'd get bored, they'd come back. He had to get somewhere safe. But when he moved it was like falling from a twelfth story window onto concrete, just the tiniest shift, and he gasped. Oh God. _Oh_ God. He couldn't move, he couldn't. But he had to.

He struggled across the hall slowly, so slowly, letting the tears roll down his face but muffling his noises. If they heard him, they'd come. He crawled into the bathroom, locked the door, vowed to stay in there for the rest of his life, and sobbed.


	6. Chapter 6

Ulquiorra hated owing people. He owed the people who saved him, he owed the man who untied him, he owed the woman who et him cry against her shoulder in the ambulance, he owed the surgeon who stopped the internal bleeding, he owed the nurses who were helping him recover, and he owed his mother.

His mother. A woman he hadn't seen since he was four. But here she was, abandoning her life wherever she had been before, paying for his surgery and moving to this own and finding a job. In a way, he owed her the most. In a way, she was the one he most hated owing.

Not, of course, that he had any intention of detailing this to his new therapist-the third one he'd gone through in the past two weeks. Each one gave up, saying that perhaps a different personality type would be better able to open him up, but in truth they just didn't want to deal with him and his secular silence any longer.

"So, Ulquiorra, anything new in the past few days?" Dr. Redbird asked. Truthfully, she was a kind woman. Ulquiorra felt almost guilty for having to dupe her.

"Not in particular," he answered.

"And how is your healing going?"

"On schedule." And oh, was he thankful for that. He was finally out of the hospital, having cleared an infection and gone through a small portion of his physical therapy. He had severely ripped his abdominal wall, as well as rupturing his intestines in two places and bruising several other internal organs, but he was finally on the mend. He was able to go back to school on Monday, as long as he stayed on crutches.

"How many people are aware of what happened?" he asked, trying to gauge the kind of peer-related issues he would have upon his imminent return.

"Your school announced over the loudspeaker that you were severely injured but didn't say why," Dr. Redbird said. "Are you worried about people asking you?"

"Not particularly," Ulquiorra intoned. Dr. Redbird gave him a look.

"Are you sure about that, Ulquiorra?" she asked. "It would be perfectly natural for you to have some anxiety over what to say to your peers, as well as how they would react."

"No one will directly confront me, therefore it is of no consequence," Ulquiorra said.

"No one will ask you?" Dr. Redbird repeated. "Do you not have a good relationship with the others at your school?"

"I do not have relationships," Ulquiorra answered.

"Okay, let's talk about that," the doctor said, crossing her legs and sitting back into her chair. "So you don't have any friends?"

"Why would I want them?" Ulquiorra asked.

"Why not?"

"In case you had forgotten, Doctor, I am a high school student. I have no desire to spend my time around my immature peers any longer than the hours of school dictate."

"I see," Dr. Redbird hummed, jotting something down on her clipboard. "So you're saying that other teenagers aggravate you because of their lower intellect."

"Yes."

"So you consider yourself above them?"

"Naturally."

"That's quite narcissistic, Ulquiorra."

"It's not narcissistic if it is a fact. I have a higher intellect and maturity level, therefore those who are significantly below me are unpalatable to me. This is true of all people who are forced to cohabit with imbeciles."

"Does this outlook cause you problems? Do you have any enemies?"

"A number of them," Ulquiorra said.

"And has anyone ever confronted you, physically or verbally?"

"On occasion, but not often anymore. Not physically since the sixth grade." Ulquiorra carefully left out mention of Jaegerjaques, who confronted him physically at least once a day. The good doctor did not need to know this, or that if anyone would take advantage of his injured state it would be that blue-haired ruffian. He could easily handle that himself, despite his physical limits at the moment.

"What happened in the sixth grade?"

"I young man attempted to punch me and I punched him back," Ulquiorra said. "I broke his jaw, and he was unable to speak for several weeks while it was wired shut."

"Do you feel any remorse for injuring him?"

"Why should I? I was merely defending myself."

"That's a little brutal for a sixth grader, don't you think? Normally someone so young would have a moral compass that would lead them to feel at least some guilt."

"Are you presuming that I have no moral compass?"

"Not at all, only that necessity has hardened you to it. What do you think has made you that way?"

"We both know the answer to that," Ulquiorra said.

"I want you to say it," Dr. Redbird insisted. "Have you ever said it aloud before?"

"No," Ulquiorra said.

"You need to. You'd be surprised what just saying it will do, even if you know it internally. This is a safe place." Ha. That was amusing. After all, Ulquiorra knew that this pleasant woman was hired by the state to evaluate his mental scars, which were his own to handle. Anything he said could and would be used against him. The only safe place was inside himself.

"I was hardened by six years of sexual abuse," Ulquiorra said. He was surprised by the almost hitch he found in his voice as he said it; how strange. It quickly passed, and he thought nothing more of it.

"Good," Dr. Redbird said gently. "Say it again."

If Ulquiorra were that kind of person, he would have rolled his eyes. "I said it once, is that not enough?"

"No," Dr. Redbird replied, "but we can stop for now if you want. What else do you want to talk about?"

"I have nothing of interest to say," Ulquiorra told her.

"Nothing? What about your mother?"

"She's fine."

"How are you liking the new apartment?"

"Well enough."

"Do you have any pets?"

"None."

"You may want to consider getting one. Animals can be very good for trauma."

"I'll mention it."

"What are you doing to keep yourself occupied while you recover?"

"Sudoku, mostly. I watched a few movies. I read books."

"What movies have you seen?"

"_Life of Pi_ and _Les Miserables._"

"Did you like them?"

"Neither one was as good as the books."

"You mentioned you like to read. What are you reading right now?"

"_The Great Tree of Avalon,_ the first book in the trilogy."

"And what's that about?"

"It's based in a mythological world known as Avalon, which is a giant tree planted by the wizard Merlin. The first book, at least, occurs in the root-realms, of which there are seven, and there are creatures such as eaglefolk and mud makers. There are three main characters, an eagleman and two humans, and one of them must be the Child of the Dark Prophecy who will destroy Avalon as it is known. They seek Merlin's true heir, who is the only one able to stop the Dark Child. It's quite the adventure story."

"And fantasy story, it sounds like," Dr. Redbird smiled a little, and Ulquiorra realized the amount of zeal she had pulled from him on the topic of books. "You seem like you really love reading. It fantasy your usual fare?"

"Yes," Ulquiorra said. "That and mythology."

"That's very typical of people who have difficult lives," Dr. Redbird said. "Reading, especially reading of the fantastical, provides an escape from the hardships you face on a daily basis." Ulquiorra didn't bother telling her that she was looking too far into his reading choice; he merely enjoyed fantasy. "What other books do you greatly enjoy?"

"_The Lord of the Rings _series,as well as _The Hobbit,"_ Ulquiorra said. "_Dragon's Milk_ and the rest of its series, _Harry Potter, Riptide_ and _Darklife,_ _The Longlight Legacy _series, and a few others."

"Excellent escapes."

"Excellent books," Ulquiorra corrected. "I also believe that we are out of time." Dr. Redbird glanced at the clock, deflating. Ulquiorra felt for her. For the first time she was getting Ulquiorra to speak on something, even if only his favorite books, and here times was up.

"Alright," she said heavily. "Just one more question. Are you noticing any symptoms of post-traumatic stress? Sudden anxiety attacks, jumpiness, nightmares?"

"None," Ulquiorra said.

"See you next week," Dr. Redbird said as Ulquiorra stood.

"Yes."

~!~

It was all pain. Everything that was and wasn't, everything light and dark, everything there and not there, all of it was pain. It was a constantly growing burn that spread in his bones, his marrow, his ligaments and arteries, and he screamed.

Fists and feet pummeled him from all sides, eery echoes of malicious laughs rattling around. All he could see was black, the blackness of death, but he wasn't dead. No, he was still alive, still suffering. He couldn't anticipate the blows, couldn't see them coming, they made no sound as they came towards him. He was lost, so lost, and everything was pain.

The panic rose like a waterline inside him, so quickly engulfing him. And still the hands and feet knocked the breath from him, broke his bones, bruised his organs. Pain, it was all pain. There was no refuge. He could feel it so acutely. He wanted to die.

A chuckle in the darkness. His father. His heart seized up. He screamed. But no one could hear him.

He opened his eyes and all he saw was black-but not the blackness of death. No, this was the blackness of a darkened room. He could see the patterns made on the ceiling by the light coming through the blinds. His heart raced his lungs, and his stitches ached. He was alive. He was awake.

Slowly the panic trickled out of him, and he took stock of the situation. Had he shouted? Had he woken his mother? He listened intently, but nothing stirred in their small apartment. A quick glance under the blanket proved that his thrashing had ripped some of his stitches from his flesh. He was bleeding. He lay back.

When would it have ended? How long would he have taken to die? Why was he still alive? But he knew why. Someone had picked up a phone and saved him, and he didn't know who. But he would find to.

There was one more person he owed.


End file.
